


Futility

by orphan_account



Category: Peep Show
Genre: Angst, Bad Writing, Dark, Out of Character, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-14 03:03:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16904901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Please note this deals with depression and suicide attempts and may be triggering.





	Futility

Mark supposed he'd always been depressed on some level. How could you not be in today's world? Life was a monotonous repetition of eating, working, shitting, looking for love, regretting love, cutting your losses, it would never change. Mark supposed that's was what was hitting him so hard now. So hard that getting out of bed seemed impossible. He was forty. Forty years old, and he'd accomplished absolutely nothing. Except reproduction, which according to Darwin was the prime purpose of life. But his offspring wouldn't come out well in natural selection. No, his offspring would be the baby elephant that starved to death during the drought like he'd seen in that David Attenborough documentary. What with him as a father the poor sod was off to a losing start, and there was no redemption in his alcoholic mother. He'd probably end up abused in foster care, and he'd hate Mark even more than Mark hated his own father. If that was possible... 

"Mark?" Ugh, Jeremy. Mark considered turning over but found it was too much effort. 

"Mark! Mark! Are you dead Mark?" Mark felt himself being shaken back and forth and groaned.

"So you are alive!" 

"Unfortunately." Mark managed to get out, not even finding the energy to tell Jeremy that asking someone if they were dead was a stupid question, because a dead person can't answer questions. 

"Aren't you going to get up?" Jeremy sounded incredulous, but then he would, Mark thought bitterly. It was a Saturday night after all, and Saturday nights were for drinking or smoking some kind of substances so you could momentarily forget the agony of being alive, or as Jeremy put it 'having fun'. 

"No." Mark tried to summon up some snark in his voice, but the "no" rang empty and defeated. 

"Oh. Right. Well, I'm going out with Super Hans. I'll see you later." Jeremy said, and began to leave. Mark stared at the ceiling for what seemed like forever after hearing the door slam shut, and then finally closed his eyes. Perhaps sleep could make it all better. 

An hour later Mark woke up in a cold sweat, his heart beating rapidly in his chest in a senseless panic.

"Jeremy?" Mark sat up and looked around the dark room. Of course, Jeremy had gone out. He was alone in the flat, always alone in the flat. The senseless panic melted away only to replaced by a heavier feeling. He swayed as he sat on the bed, looking around the room. He got up and walked the door, leaning on it and groaning. What was the point? What was the point? He stumbled to the bathroom, flicking on the light and leant on the sink. He looked up and saw his ugly, fat, unshaven face. The image blurred as tears, actual tears, filled his eyes. He almost laughed at the absurdity. It was a wonder his ancestors had survived the terrors of pre-industrial life only to end up with a descendant who couldn't even look at his own face without welling up. He wiped the tears and sniffed, like a pathetic schoolboy. Memories flooded back to him of being a schoolboy, being shoved in gym class, sitting alone at recess, pissing himself in front of the class. He'd been young then, he thought he'd grow up and become successful, and that would show them. Of course, that never happened, and here he was, pathetic as ever. 

Mark looked back down, unable to stare at his own reflection for another second. He looked at the off white basin and in the corner of his eye saw a light blue package. He picked up the faded cardboard package with worn edges. "Paracetamol: effective pain relief" Relief would be nice. To take a tablet, and not be in pain anymore, if only that's how it worked. It could be how it works... No, no of course not. He pushed away the thought. He was not going to kill himself, no, he couldn't. But why not? Well... because, Mark dug for answers. Ian, his son. But what type of father was he? Perhaps it would be better if he was dead, Ian could spend his life mourning his father, but imagining him as a hero. People didn't speak ill of the dead unless they were murderers, Ian would probably grow up better adjusted with a dead father than an absent failure of a father. What about Jeremy? But Jeremy didn't care about him, wouldn't even talk to him if it weren't for the free food and accommodation. He'd get the apartment if Mark was dead, at least until Ian was old enough to claim it. He'd probably do better without Mark in the way anyway. Mark stared back at the package. 

He had no reason to live. Ian would be better off without him, so would Jeremy. Nobody else cared about him. He didn't contribute to society. He opened the package and took out a sheet of the pills. Yes, Mark decided. It was better this way. For everyone. His hands shook as he put the first pill into his mouth and coughed as he swallowed it. He'd need water. No need to bother with the lights, he knew the flat back and forth. Returning to the bathroom, he sat on the floor to take the second pill. It was much easier with water. The third pill came easier. Fourth, sixth, seventh. A sense of serenity set in as he popped the eighth pill out of the plastic packaging. He kept going until he'd taken all fourteen tablets left in the package, and stared at the ceiling. This was it, the end of his pathetic existence. Finally, no more heartbreak, no more emptiness, no more failure. Mark sighed and closed his eyes, now he just had to wait.


End file.
